The blades glinted like hungry teeth in the pale moonlight.
I stood in the dirt, chest tight, clothes torn, blood drying along my knuckles. My arms ached. My legs screamed. But my head—my head was strangely clear. Ten men, maybe twelve, circled me with smiles that promised nothing but pain.
Their boots kicked up dust with each slow step, tightening the ring. They thought I'd break. They thought I'd beg.
Idiots.
One of them spat to the side, twirling a sword that looked stolen from some unlucky soldier's corpse.
"End of the road, boy. You're not walking away from this."
I didn't answer. Words didn't matter. Not to them. Not to me.
The scarred one—their leader, maybe—stepped forward. His jaw looked stitched together by a butcher's hand. Ugly bastard. He sneered, savoring my defeat.
"You've got guts. I'll give you that. But guts don't stop blades."
My fingers flexed, searching for a weapon I didn't have. Thoughts flickered—no, not here, not now. Not when all eyes were on me.
Classroom. White lights flickering overhead. A pen slipping from my hand. Then the world turning black.
And when I opened my eyes… here.
I didn't know where "here" was. A world too sharp to be a dream, too cruel to be home. Better they think I'm just some brat who wandered too far from safety. Better that than questions I couldn't answer.
The circle tightened. My body tensed. Sweat stung my eyes. Dust and blood coated my skin.
Keep it steady… come on, Eren. Don't give them the satisfaction.
The scarred leader laughed short and cruel.
"Look at him—still glaring like he's got a chance."
The others chuckled. Wolves laughing before they closed in.
I exhaled, long and slow, rolling my shoulders back. My body felt like shit. Strength running thin. I wasn't dead yet. And until I was, I wasn't losing.
"You… done talking?" My voice came out rough, lower than I expected. "Or you just gonna bore me to death first?"
Their smiles faltered for half a breath, then twisted into snarls. One lunged, swinging a rusted blade with a roar.
I moved.
Not fast enough. Not clean enough. But just enough. The blade cut air where I'd been. My fist slammed into his jaw with a crack that made the others flinch. He hit the ground, groaning, weapon clattering from his hand.
Silence. Then rage.
The circle exploded. Steel flashed. Boots thundered. Curses spat like fire. My arms burned. Cuts opened across my skin. But I kept moving. Striking. Fighting. Cornered animal or not, I wasn't done.
Every second stretched to eternity. Every heartbeat pounded louder than their shouts. The world narrowed to blades, blood, and breath.
How the hell did I get here?
No answer. Just the sting of another blade, the rush of air as I ducked, the jolt of pain as my fist met bone again.
And beneath it all, a single thought:
This isn't where I'm supposed to be.
The scarred leader finally charged, sword raised high, roar drowning the chaos. Others pulled back, giving him space. His blade caught the moonlight, a silver arc of death.
I planted my feet, blood dripping down my arm, breath ragged. My body screamed at me to stop, to run, to collapse.
But I didn't. I couldn't. Not here. Not now.
Steel screamed past me. And in that instant, one thought burned brighter than fear, louder than pain:
If this is where my story begins… I'll make damn sure it doesn't end here.
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